


Somebody to Love

by keepcalmanddonotblink, MashiarasDream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, D/s, Destiel - Freeform, Dom!Cas, Gentle dom!Cas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Some angst, Sub!Dean, even some humor, lots of fluff, no actual smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4877521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepcalmanddonotblink/pseuds/keepcalmanddonotblink, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashiarasDream/pseuds/MashiarasDream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wakes up in an alley after a bar fight with no memory of the actual fight. When a handsome stranger comes to his rescue, Dean’s torn between being wary and being grateful. But fortunately, Castiel knows what he’s doing. Even if it originally doesn’t necessarily seem that way (enter Dr. Chuck Shurley, veterinarian).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somebody to Love

**Author's Note:**

> No one knows why this turned into a D/s fic. Seriously. It wasn’t supposed to be. But then it was. 
> 
> (The title is taken from the song by Queen.)

‘Fuck,’ is about the only word that comes to mind. ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck.’

He still hears that sound of his head connecting with the brick wall. It just echoes and echoes.

He tries to locate his limbs, one at a time. Left arm, yep. Right arm, ouch. He flexes his fingers a few times. Not a good idea. He looks at his knuckles without comprehension. They are bloody and torn.

A vague memory comes back. His fist connecting with – a skull? A stomach? Both? Maybe on different guys. He shakes his head to clear the fuzziness but that only makes the world spin. Also, ouch. And oh yes, there had been that brick wall. Brick walls win against heads. He knows this.

Better go on with the inventory. Legs. Where are his legs? Oh, right, they’re splayed out in front of him. He concentrates. ‘Come on, leg,’ he urges his muscles on. But nope, no dice. He takes a deep breath. He’s got to calm down. Soon as the world isn’t swimming anymore, it’ll all be fine.

Unless it won’t be. He looks at his legs again. He got hit in the head alright. What else? Did anything connect with his spine? A cold fear runs down his back.

‘Calm down, Winchester, calm down.’

But his heart rate doesn’t want to follow his words. And fuck, there’s blood running down his face and his heart rate going higher doesn’t help.

‘This is not your first rodeo, come on, you know how to do this.’

And hey, at least his memory is coming back some. Because he remembers that he’s been in fights before. Now if the ringing in his skull would stop, he might even remember this one. There was a dude. Dean tries to laugh because isn’t there always a dude? But it only comes out as a sort of wheezing. And it makes his chest hurt. A punch to the ribs? Probably.

Anyway, there was this dude. Sleazy guy, hair grease, tattoos. And his wingmen. Yeah. Chatting up Jo. No problem so far. Jo can shut random guys down. But then Dean had gone to the back, getting a new crate of beer. And they’d had Jo backed up against a wall. And fucking hell, no one backs his little sister up against a wall.

He’d seen red. Literally seen red.

And then it’s all kind of hazy until a few minutes ago.

It takes effort but he turns his head. If he’s still in the alley behind the Roadhouse everything is fine. They’ll come and find him in a minute. He’s in for another lecture from Ellen of course, about not calling for help and taking on the assholes on his own. But he’s heard it before, and Ellen never stays angry too long.

Problem is, he doesn’t know this alley. It’s small and dark and it smells of piss, but the tell-tale lights of the Roadhouse aren’t there. There are no real lights at all. There’s the noise of cars in the distance, and the rustling of something a lot closer. Rats going through garbage bins where he’s been dumped probably.

‘Dumped in the garbage. Awesome job, Winchester,’ he thinks.

Well, let’s try this again. He wills his legs to move and this time, the result is a bit better. At least he manages to bend his knees and get his feet somewhat closer to his body. It’s a long way away from standing up, but at least it seems all the essentials are working.

He breathes a sigh of relief before noticing that this way he’s got no access to his jeans pockets. Fuck. He lets his legs slide back down. Pockets. He had his cell phone in his pocket. Nothing else, because he always locks up his personal shit in the back when he’s working. Too many pickpockets around and he doesn’t need the stuff while he’s manning the bar. But he keeps his cell on him. In case Sammy calls. Or in case there is some other emergency. Like getting beat up in an alley somewhere. That would be a good moment to have a cell phone.

Which of course means it isn’t there. Because this is Dean and his luck always abandons him when he needs it the most.

“Fuck,” it’s the first time he says it out loud and it reverberates around the empty street almost as much as it does in his head. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Well, at least if anyone tries to rob him, they’ll be in for a disappointment, he thinks in an attempt at gallows’ humor. Of course, if someone attempts to rob him and they get angry because Dean doesn’t have anything of value on him, that’ll probably be worse. Dean’s in no position to defend himself.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, the word still being the only one that fits the situation, and goes back to trying to get his legs to cooperate.

Concentrates enough on it, actually, that he jumps about half a foot in the air when a dark voice close to him says, “I thought I’d heard something.”

He brings his hands up in front of his body automatically. He’s got no weapons to defend himself with but his arms move well enough, he can land a few blows before he gets overwhelmed, he’s sure. “You’re too late,” he shouts. Or tries to shout, rather, because it still sounds mostly like wheezing. “I’ve got nothing. The others took everything already.” Or so he thinks. Unless he’s actually just forgotten his cell phone.

“Easy there,” comes the gravelly voice again. “You’ve been hurt.”

“Yeah, no shit, man,” Dean mutters while he tries to get a grip on the situation. It’s so dark in the alley and his vision is still blurry. He goes taut when the man crosses the final few steps between them, ready to attack, but the man just squats down next to him and squints at him, head tilted to the side.

“I think I should call an ambulance,” the man nods to himself.

From this close, Dean can see that he’s wearing a suit and a trench coat. Rich, then. And not a mugger. That’s good. He feels relieved until the man’s words catch up to him. “Ambulance? No way, man, don’t!” It comes out more frantic than he intends.

“But you’ve been hurt. The obvious choice is to call an ambulance so that you can get checked out at the hospital.”

“No, man, I’m fine,” Dean says but the way his whole body falls back against the wall when he tries to get up somewhat belies his words.

“No, you’re not,” the man states matter-of-factly.

“No, I’m not,” Dean admits. “But I will be, okay? Just give me a moment to catch my breath.”

“There’s blood running down your face,” the man observes.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean sighs.

There’s a moment of silence, then the man starts rummaging in his pockets. Dean’s immediately back on high alert but when the man retrieves what he was looking for, it’s just a handkerchief. An honest to God old-fashioned cotton handkerchief.

“Here,” the man holds it out to him.

“Uh, thanks,” Dean says dumbfounded and takes the piece of fabric.

“You have to actually press it against the gash,” the man says.

“Dude,” Dean answers but doesn’t have the words to express how much his muscles are not up for that right now.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the man huffs and takes the handkerchief from Dean again, just to lean in and press it against Dean’s forehead.

They’re uncomfortably close this way, the man bent all the way over Dean, his trench coat brushing Dean’s legs and side.

“You’ll get your clothes dirty,” he says lamely, because it’s the only thing that comes to mind.

The man just snorts.

“I’m clean, though,” Dean goes on because that’s the second thing that comes to mind. “Not dirt-wise, obviously, but, you know, health-wise.” Because he’s reasonably sure you’re not supposed to touch someone who’s bleeding without gloves.

“That’s very reassuring coming from the beaten-up drunk in the alley-way, thank you very much,” the man rolls his eyes.

“Dean. My name is Dean,” Dean says. “And I’m not a drunk.”

“You smell like alcohol,” the other man answers.

“I work in a bar, comes with the territory,” Dean replies a little harsher than maybe necessary. “Sorry,” he amends, “you’re helping me. Shouldn’t get snarky.” He lets his eyes drift close, concentrating on just breathing slowly. “Cinnamon,” he says suddenly. “You smell like office and like – cinnamon.”

There’s a surprised chuckle. “I like those cinnamon chewing gums.” And then after a second’s hesitation, “Castiel. I’m Castiel.”

“Nice to meet you, Castiel,” Dean says and opens his eyes again just to find that Castiel has moved into his space even further, his eyes now only inches away from Dean’s. They’re blue and they’re concerned.

Weird. No one is very concerned about Dean usually. He does the worrying about everyone else. And he can handle himself, so there’s no reason to be concerned about him in the first place.

“Dean, I think that gash needs stitches. I mean it’s right up in your hairline and I can’t see it that well but it looks deep.”

“That’s okay, Castiel. I’ll stitch it up once I get home.”

“You’ll – what?” Castiel asks, shock evident in his voice.

“My insurance is shitty. I ain’t going to go into debt for a couple of stitches. It’s nothing I haven’t done before. I’ve got whiskey and a needle and dental floss at home, that’s good enough.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“I’m deadly serious.”

And that is probably the wrong choice of words because now Castiel looks at him with a wide-eyed expression of fear and then he starts shaking his head fervently. “No! No, I won’t let you!”

“I’m not going to the hospital,” Dean insists.

“Okay, okay,” Castiel seems to be thinking furiously. “Ah! I know. Dr. Shurley! He can help. He can do stitches! And he can check for other injuries, too.”

“How’s that any better? Still going to cost me a fortune.”

“No, it won’t. He’s a friend of mine. He’s helped me out many times before. Yes. Yes, that’s perfect. We’ll do that.”

Dean’s not quite sure why a proper guy like Castiel would need a doctor to help him out ‘many times’, but if he’s honest, he’s really kind of leery of doing the stitches himself. Cause this is his face. So if he fucks that up, it’s going to be a reminder to carry around for the rest of his life. And he’s not keen on that. So he gives in. “He’s really going to do this for you, this Dr. Shurley?”

“Yes, he will.”

“And you’re okay doing this for me?”

“Of course,” Castiel bristles. “I would not never just leave a helpless stranger in a back alley somewhere.”

And oh God, how has Dean become a helpless stranger in a back alley? That’s not the first impression he wants to make on anyone. Still, “Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Do you think you can stand?”

“Honestly? No idea. Didn’t work so well before. But my head’s a bit clearer now, so it’s worth the try.”

“Alright,” Castiel nods. “Here, hold this right here, and I’ll help.” He guides Dean’s hand to the handkerchief. It’s already damp where he’s been pressing it on the wound.

Castiel positions himself so that he can get his hands under Dean’s armpits while Dean tries to get his feet under him as best as he can.

“Okay. On the count of three. One, two, three.”

It’s an enormous effort and Castiel is carrying most of Dean’s weight, but somehow it works.

“Whoa,” Dean murmurs because the world is spinning again with the sudden movement. “Think it’ll make the wound stop bleeding if there’s no blood left in my head?”

“You’re dizzy,” Castiel deducts and gets a tighter hold of Dean. “You can lean on me. My car isn’t far from here.”

“Awesome,” Dean mutters, aware that absolutely nothing about this situation is awesome. “Lead the way then.”

They fight their way forward step by step. Fortunately, the movement seems to clear Dean’s head a little. He’s reasonably sure that he’s got at least a mild concussion and that something is off with his ribs because breathing still hurts. But it doesn’t feel like he’s drowning and his breath isn’t rasping, so in all likelihood, even if it’s worse than a bruise, his lungs didn’t get pierced and that’s good enough for him. He decides not to dwell on the fact that he knows the difference by feel.

“Alright, Dean, can you hold on to the car while I open the door for you?”

And huh, how have they already made it to the car? Reluctantly, he lets go of Castiel’s warmth to lean against the cold steel of the tiny hybrid. “Doesn’t look like a serial killer car.”

“What?” Cas asks taken aback.

“Your mom never told you that you shouldn’t get into a car with a stranger in case they’re going to axe-murder you?”

“I assure you that I have no intent of murdering you,” Cas says exasperatedly.

“Yeah, man, if you do, at least don’t do it in this car. I’m never going to live that down.”

“If I murder you, that will hardly become an issue, will it? And now get in the car.” Despite the bossy tone, Castiel’s hands are gentle when they help Dean fold himself into the passenger seat. And damn him if Dean’s breath doesn’t hitch at the combination of authority and gentle hands, whether he’s still in pain or not.

Castiel swiftly moves over to the driver side and starts the car. Once they’re out of the alley and on the relatively brighter main road, Dean can make out Castiel’s features a little better. He’s not really looked him over apart from noticing the expensive clothes. Well, expensive in comparison to what Dean tends to wear. But the little spark in his stomach that the authority in Cas’ voice lit makes him take a second look at the guy helping him out.

The orange neon lights throw his face into stark contrast in regular intervals. His hair is tousled and he’s got a three o’clock shadow even though he probably shaved this morning. It’s a good look on him. It gives him something wild, like the boring office outfit is just camouflage for who he really is. Suddenly Dean’s mouth is dry.

“Are you holding up okay?” Castiel asks and cocks his eyebrow at Dean for a moment before looking back at the road. He drives with the kind of lazy self-assurance that Dean doesn’t usually connect with yuppie hybrid cars.

“Yeah, I’m good,” Dean nods, the words slightly rushed. He clears his throat and tears his eyes away from his rescuer before the staring becomes too obvious. “Wondering where we are.”

“Intersection of Maple Valley and 5th,” Cas says without hesitation.

“Damn,” Dean mutters. “That’s about a 15 minute drive from where I blacked out.”

“Want to tell me what happened?” Castiel asks.

Dean really doesn’t, but there’s that thread of authority still laced into Castiel’s voice. “You a cop or something?” Cops wear suits sometimes and work in offices when they’re detectives and shit.

“What makes you say that?” There’s something curious in Castiel’s tone now.

“I don’t know, man, just getting the feeling you’re used to getting an answer when you ask something.”

Even in the dark, Dean can see the smirk when Castiel replies, “And? Am I going to get an answer?”

Yep, concussion or no concussion, Dean can’t help himself. He grins. “You going to punish me if you don’t?”

There is a moment of silence in which Dean thinks he might have stepped way out of bounds, but then Castiel licks his lips when he looks back over at Dean. His voice is determined but quiet enough to be almost inaudible when he answers, “Not while you’re hurt.”

And fuck, that was a pretty explicit answer to that question, wasn’t it? Dean swallows heavily and presses the handkerchief harder to his forehead just to counteract the clenching in his stomach. “Three guys cornered my little sister. And before you say it, yeah, it’s pretty damn stupid to take three guys on on my own. But she’s my little sister, man.” Or as close to a little sister as he’s ever going to have.

He expects to be told off for it, because everyone he knows would tell him off. Ellen, Bobby, Sam, even Jo herself. But Cas just nods as if he understands that family needs to be protected. Even at the expense of one’s own health.

It gives Dean the courage to answer the other part of the question. “Can’t really give you much info about the actual fight. As I said, I kind of blacked out. There’s a few hazy memories of punches thrown but that’s it.”

“Do you do this often?” Castiel asks.

“Get into cars with strangers?”

“Get into fights,” Castiel emphasizes.

“It’s not -,” Dean clears his throat uncomfortably. “Not cause I needed to get hurt or something.” And how have they gotten from light flirting to deep admissions like this? That’s so not his style. He plays his cards close to his chest normally.

“I’m glad,” Castiel answers, “because that would be a pretty risky way of dealing with things. And I wouldn’t like it.”

Dean presses his lips together. It’s none of Castiel’s business either way. So whether he’d like it or not is irrelevant. And it definitely should not spawn a surge of guilt in Dean. Or a wish to be good so that Castiel will be happy with him. He doesn’t know the guy at all for God’s sake.

“We’re here.” Castiel stops the car in front of a dark house in a silent side-street.

Dean looks at the sleeping neighborhood doubtfully. “You sure about this, man? Cause I’m already feeling better.”

Without having to keep an eye on the road, Castiel can level him with a stare again and he immediately does. “I’m sure. Also, I have a name so you might as well use it instead of calling me ‘man’.” He waits for Dean to nod before adding. “Stay where you are. I don’t want you to topple to the ground and hurt yourself more.”

Then he gets out of the car and comes around to the passenger side to open the door and help Dean up. It’s weird as all fuck. He’s no damsel-in-distress for God’s sake. At the same time, the dizziness is not completely gone and it feels good being able to lean onto someone else. Especially someone who seems to have hidden strong muscles under that trench-coated exterior.

“This is the weirdest first date ever, man,” Dean mutters and then quickly corrects himself, “Cas. I mean Cas.”

Cas hums something that might be non-committal or it might be approval, but he doesn’t refute the ‘first date’ claim and he doesn’t object to the shortening of his name. Instead he just leads Dean towards the house.

It takes a minute or two after Castiel rings the door-bell, but then the lights get turned on and a sleepy guy in a bathrobe opens the door. “I swear to you, Castiel, if this is about another stray kitten – oh.” He looks Dean up and down. “You’re not a kitten.”

“No, he is not. Chuck, we require your help.”

Dr. Shurley sighs. “I can see that. I can also see that the one hundred times that I have tried to tell you that a human is not an overgrown hamster have not helped.”

“If you can do stitches on a hamster, you can do stitches on a human,” Castiel frowns and drags Dean with him when he pushes past Chuck and into the house. “Where should I put him?”

Chuck sighs again, obviously resigned to his fate. “Kitchen table, please. The light is best there. I’ll get my emergency kit.”

“Cas, what the fuck?” Dean whispers the minute Chuck is out of sight. “That guy is a _veterinarian_!”

“Yes, he is,” Cas confirms evenly. “He is also good at what he does. And despite his insistence that it isn’t so, all mammals actually have more in common than not.”

“Great,” Dean mutters but doesn’t actually fight being placed on a chair at the kitchen table.

“May I remind you that I _was_ going to call an ambulance until you insisted that I don’t.”

“And I was fine doing this myself,” Dean bitches back.

“Uhh, do you need another moment for your lovers’ quarrel or whatever this is? Or do you want me to actually look at that cut?” And somehow they haven’t even heard Chuck come back in.

“No, please, go ahead,” Castiel gestures and then takes a step back to give Chuck space.

It is only then that Dean notices how far into his personal space Cas had actually stepped. And Jesus if that isn’t at least a little hot, he doesn’t know.

“Okay, let’s look at this.” Chuck’s mannerism changes from skittish to professional as he pulls on some gloves and takes the soiled handkerchief out of Dean’s hand to place it in a metal bowl on the table. “Yep, that needs to be cleaned and it needs stitches. Anything else that’s still bleeding?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“Alright. Any other kind of pain that warrants immediate attention?”

“Nah. Bruised ribs most likely. Possibly a mild concussion. But I don’t feel nauseous and I don’t see double.”

“Ah, a doctor’s apprentice then. Or getting into fights too often.”

Dean decides that it’s safer not to answer that one.

“Open wounds first it is,” Chuck nods to himself and gets to work.

Dean flinches his way through cleaning every open wound, including his bruised knuckles, but refuses the offer of pain killers Chuck makes before he starts on the stitches. It’s not like Dean hasn’t gotten through this before. Also, just maybe, he doesn’t want to come over as a pussy in front of Castiel.

If that’s the plan, though, it doesn’t work, because half a minute later Cas stands in front of him with a glass of water and an ibuprofen from the emergency kit. He doesn’t even say anything, just holds everything out to Dean. It takes exactly one stern look before Dean obediently takes the pill and swallows it with the water. Cas nods satisfied and steps to the side again to let Chuck do his work.

Once he is done with the stitches, Chuck sets the needle aside and nods. “Alright, that looks good. Humans are easier than hamsters, I got to admit. Now let’s check the rest of you out. Remove the shirt if you please.”

“Umm,” Dean is dumbfounded for a moment and his gaze flits to Castiel, incredibly aware of his presence in the room.

“Castiel has seen a male chest or two in his life, I assure you. He won’t be scandalized by the fact that you have skin under your shirt.”

Dean’s getting the feeling that Chuck is a sarcastic little shit but he doesn’t see much chance to get out of this, so he might as well get over with it. He grunts with the movement when he draws his shirt over his head even though the pain killers have kicked in already.

“Yeah, you’re developing a nice bruise already,” Chuck nods. “Alright, let’s feel for a fracture. You'll notice if anything’s broken by the fact that you’ll be screaming.”

“How terribly reassuring.”

“I always am. Especially when woken up in the middle of the night.” But he works swiftly and carefully, making Dean take in a sharp breath once or twice and his eyes water when he goes back over a particularly nasty area, but it’s nothing that Dean can’t handle. “Alright, you’re lucky. We’ll put Ben-gay on it and that’s it for now. I can’t do much about the possible concussion. Ideally, someone should wake you up every few hours to check up on you. Apart from that, rest, see whether the head gets better. If not, or if there’s additional pain in the morning, or wooziness, or if you black out or start throwing up, you need to get checked out in an actual hospital.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean nods.

“Alright,” Chuck says and gets rid of his gloves. “That’s it then. I’d love to chitchat but you should go home rest and I want to go back to bed. So I’m throwing you out.”

“Thanks, Chuck,” Cas nods.

“Don’t mention it. Also, Castiel? Don’t do this again. Neither with a kitten nor a human.”

Castiel looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, then he shrugs. “I promise nothing. For the kittens, anyway. I’ll try to keep Dean from a repeat performance.”

And Dean will be damned if his heart doesn’t jump a little at that.

 

It is easier to walk back to the car than it was walking to the house. Cas still keeps an arm around him though instead of holding him up he now has a hand on the small of Dean’s back, guiding him forward. Not that Dean is complaining about it.

Once they’re back in the car, Cas asks. “So are you living on your own or with your family?”

“If you wanted to go axe murderer on me it would have been easier before the stitches and the pain killer, you know that, right?”

“A straight answer, please,” Cas sighs.

“Not sure I can comply with that,” Dean smirks.

Cas rolls his eyes. “Your puns are awful. Also, I am not asking because I want to know how long I have to bury your body before someone misses you, I’m asking, because if you have a concussion, I’m not letting you go home to an empty apartment. So if you live alone, you’ll have to give me the address of your family and I’ll drive you there.”

“Umm, Cas, they ain’t exactly rich. They don’t have the space and I don’t want to be a bother. Just drop me off at the Roadhouse. I can find my way from there.”

“The Roadhouse?”

“The bar where I work. I’ve got my stuff there. And my car.”

“You’re going to drive yourself home?” Cas asks incredulously.

“That’s the plan, yeah.”

For a long moment, Cas looks at Dean, then he abruptly turns and starts the car. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Cas? Where exactly are we going?”

“Home.”

“You’ve never asked for my address.”

“I’m aware.”

“So ‘home’ means…?”

“My home, yes.”

After a minute of silence, Dean says hesitantly. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Well, I guess you can figure out first hand whether I’m a serial killer or not,” Cas smiles wryly.

Dean chuckles a little but lapses back into silence for a while. “So, do you do this often?” He finally asks. “Picking up strays?”

Cas huffs amusedly. “Kittens? Yes. Humans? No.”

“I’m allergic to cats.” It’s random information but if Cas has a dozen kittens in his apartment, then maybe it’s better to disclose this now.

“There’s two cats that stayed. They have their own free will, though. They’re used to being independent. They stay outside.”

“Oh, that’s okay then,” Dean says and feels somewhat silly that that is all he’s got to say to this. He’s just agreed to go home with a stranger, after all. Not that that isn’t something that he does every so often. But usually it’s with a girl. And he picks them up at the bar and there’s at least someone who knows who he is with. “Mind if I use your phone to text Jo where I am? That’s my little sister. The one who the guys were bothering. Just so she doesn’t worry in the morning.”

Instead of an answer, Cas fishes in his pocket for his phone, then quickly swipes in his code while keeping one eye on the road, before handing the cell to Dean. “My name is Castiel Novak and I live in 401 Grace Lane. Just in case.”

“I wouldn’t go home with you if I actually thought you were an axe-murderer, you know?” Dean answers while he types a quick text to Jo. Good thing that she never changes her cell number and he knows it by heart.

“Well, your judgement might be impaired. You hit your head pretty hard.”

Dean snorts, and Castiel chuckles.

“Just out of curiosity, what do you think that I am?” Cas asks.

“Hmm,” Dean looks Cas back over and thinks about it, “you’re not a cop after all. Cops have better friends than veterinarians to get people stitched back up.”

Cas shakes his head at this line of argument but says, “True. I’m not a cop.”

Dean looks Cas over once again. “Okay, let’s see. You work in an office, but you work out in some way, shape or form because you’ve got more muscle than an office drone should be allowed to have.” So, not flirting with this guy is apparently not an option for his brain. Well, then he might as well go in all or nothing. “You, uhh, like to take charge. Though I couldn’t say whether that is a professional thing, or just, uhh, something private.” Dean is glad that it is dark because he can feel how his face heats up with the statement.

“An astute observation,” Cas agrees though Dean isn’t sure he’s as unaffected as he makes out to be.

“That’s more _who_ you are than _what_ you are, though,” Dean contemplates. “Sorry, Cas, I give up. You could be anything from a secretary in a small firm to the CEO of a stock market company. Providing they’re okay with their employees having a bedhead and wearing their tie the wrong way round.”

Cas self-consciously pats at his tie and turns it, just for it to immediately flip over again. “Ties and me don’t seem to agree,” he finally shrugs and then with a glance in Dean’s direction, “At least not this way.”

And there it is again, the spark of something unspoken but definitely there. Unless he’s concussed enough that he’s imagining this. It’s a possibility. Because Cas is a great guy as far as Dean can tell. Good-looking. And judging by the direction they’re going, he lives in a good neighborhood. Way better than Dean’s.

Now normally, Dean makes up for being poor by having a nice face and a decent ass. He guesses he’s still got the ass, but from the glimpse in the mirror he got at Chuck’s, his face looks anything but nice right now. Stitches aren’t a good look on anyone. Unless Cas is into some really messed up shit. But wouldn’t that already have shown? Do people who like to see others hurt rescue kittens?

“Penny for your thoughts?” Cas asks.

Dean huffs and for a moment he is tempted to deflect. But then, he kind of actually needs to know this. Or at least get a ballpark number. “Just thinking about what you want with me.”

“What I want with you?” Cas’ eyebrows rise when he sends another glance towards Dean.

“Yeah, man – Cas. You rescue me in a back alley, get me to a vet to get stitched up and now you’re taking me home. Either I actually fall under the category of stray kitten for you, or you want something of me.”

“I can’t just be kind?” Cas asks.

“That’s the stray kitten category.”

Cas thinks about that for less than a second before he grins, “Two of the kittens stayed, you know…”

“Umm,” and suddenly Dean is at a loss for words. Because he’s good at flirting, but he flirts to get laid that night. There’s no allusions to anything beyond that. Ever. But then – he moves his shoulders in a circle to test his current flexibility, and yeah, ouch. Getting laid is not in the cards tonight, definitely not if there’s – ties involved. “I’m pretty banged up, Cas,” he says tentatively because he doesn’t want to let Cas down, and he is most definitely interested. He just doesn’t know how to make this work tonight.

“Dean,” Cas frowns.

“No, seriously, Cas, it’s not that I – but I’m pretty banged up.”

“I know. I was there. You need rest and you need to be woken up every few hours to see whether you have a concussion that needs further treatment. I intend to provide you with a bed to sleep in and do exactly that: Let you rest apart from waking you up every few hours.”

“I – thank you.”

Cas shakes his head but then he smirks again. “Besides, wasn’t it you who said that this was a first date? Nothing untoward is supposed to happen on a first date.”

Dean is grateful for the lighter tone and picks it up immediately. “What about goodnight kisses? Those happen on first dates, right?”

“Sometimes,” Cas concedes.

And oh yeah, Dean’s stomach is definitely fluttering. Which is a lot different than he usually feels about one-night-stands. But then, first date. That’s not a one-night-stand. He looks over at Cas again and only notices that he’s biting his lower lip when Cas looks back at him and his gaze immediately drops to Dean’s mouth. And yeah, that’s another little smirk tugging at the corner of Cas’ mouth. Dean’s so fucked.

 

Cas’ house turns out to be a small tidy place with a well-kept front lawn. The inside is well-kept, too. It’s orderly and clean, but also colorful and homely. They come in via the kitchen door, which leads into an open living space followed by a hallway.

“The bathroom is to the right, the bedroom is straight on. I’ll find you towels and a tooth brush. Come on.”

But Dean stops in the living room. “I can sleep on the couch, Cas. It looks comfortable enough.”

“Nonsense. You got hurt, you sleep in the bed. I can take the couch. I can put clean sheets on the bed, too, if you want. Though they are reasonably clean as they are. Do you want a pair of sweat pants to sleep in?”

“Nah, my boxers are just fine,” Dean answers automatically before it catches up to him that sleeping in just boxers displays a hell of a lot of skin. “Uhh, if that’s okay with you, that is.”

Cas raises his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Umm, it’s too close to untoward for a first date?”

Cas chuckles, then shrugs and ignores Dean’s awkwardness. He points to the bedroom. “What are you waiting for? Chuck said you need rest. So go get undressed while I find what you need.”

Dean’s feet are moving before his brain has even caught up with the sentence. Goddamn, Cas has a sexy voice when he gets bossy.

The bedroom is – normal. Dean’s not sure what he’s expected but it relieves him a little. There are light grey sheets on the beds and the walls are decorated with close-ups of flowers and bees. They aren’t artsy so much as just loving photographs.

When Cas comes in a couple of minutes later, holding a stack of towels with a toothbrush on top, Dean is still looking at the pictures. “Did you make these?”

“Yes,” Cas smiles. “I like bees.”

“They’re good photos. I mean, I can’t judge them for their art quality or whatever. But I can see that they’ve been taken with love.”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you to say.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s just the truth.”

Then he notices that Cas is now in the room with him. And doesn’t seem to have any intention to leave. And Dean’s still not undressed.

“You need help with the shirt?” Cas asks. “Didn’t seem like you were all that mobile before.”

“Umm, I think I can do it,” Dean says before deciding, what the hell, the guy has already seen him without his shirt and this way he’s at least getting a close-up. So he amends to, “Though it would probably be easier with help. So yes, thank you.”

Cas smiles and drops the towels on the bed before coming over. He’s lost the trench coat and suit jacket on the way, but he’s still wearing the tie. Somehow, Dean’s eyes are drawn to it before he looks back up at Cas’ face.

They lock eyes for a moment, for the first time in a well-lit room and this close. Cas’ eyes are a steely blue that sends a shiver through Dean, but there’s also small crinkles around his eyes, where smiles and laughter have left their marks. He’s smiling now, too, and then he’s running a hand up Dean’s arm, a steady soothing pressure. Dean leans into the touch but makes no effort to reciprocate the gesture. Instead he just does his best to relax the tight set of his muscles.

“Good,” Cas offers quietly. “Arms out.” He gently shrugs the flannel off of Dean’s shoulders. “And arms up.”

This time, Dean complies with a small grunt because the movement strains his bruised ribs.

But Cas is quick about drawing Dean’s t-shirt over his head. “All done, you can relax again,” he nods. He looks at the darkening bruise over Dean’s chest with a frown and stretches out a hand as if to touch it but then refrains. “Can you deal with the jeans on your own?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods.

“Alright. Then get ready for bed. I’ll go get you another aspirin and some water.”

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean repeats though it sounds like an endless loop by now.

“You’re welcome, Dean,” Cas answers like he means it.

By the time Dean comes out of the bathroom (and damn there’s a lot of muscle groups involved in getting out of jeans and in brushing your teeth), there’s a glass of water and an aspirin on the nightstand. Cas is standing in front of the drawers, back towards the door, just pulling an old t-shirt over his head. He already wearing sweat pants, so that’s apparently his outfit for the night.

“Hey,” Dean makes his presence known.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas smiles and turns back to him. “All set?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods.

“Do you need fresh sheets? I didn’t get around to that.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean shakes his head.

Cas nods. “The bed’s all yours, then.”

It feels weird, getting into a bed that isn’t his while the owner of said bed is standing right next to him. If this was a normal one-night-stand, at least the owner would tumble into bed with him. Not that he would be opposed to it here, either. “Cas?”

“What is it?”

“You got a pretty big bed.” Dean sits down on one side of the bed and looks over the expense of sheets and blankets. “I don’t need it to be all mine.”

Cas regards him carefully for a few moments. “Are you sure? People have told me I hog blankets.”

Dean chuckles. “I think I can deal. Unless there is some other reason against sharing a bed?”

“Are you asking whether I’m single, or are you doubting that I can keep my hands to myself?” Cas asks.

Dry humor seems to be Cas’ ammo against intrusive questions, and Dean is okay with it. It makes the situation less awkward. “Ah, but you are the one who said nothing untoward on a first date. I never said that I wanted you to keep your hands to yourself. So, are you? Single?”

“You don’t want me to keep my hands to myself?” Cas raises one eyebrow and instead of going over to the other side of the bed he strides closer to where Dean is sitting. It’s somewhere between casual and predatory, Dean can’t really decide. What he knows, though, is that Cas switches gears fucking fast. Gone is the guy who photographs bees, and instead there’s a steely eyed man towering over him, demanding an answer.

Not surprisingly, Dean’s mouth works a few times before he actually manages to reply. “I think a goodnight kiss was deemed decent enough…” Cas has come so far into his personal space that Dean has to look up to keep his eyes on Cas’ face. His stomach somersaults just the tiniest bit at the new angle. Cas is all hard lines from here, strong runner’s thighs, square shoulders, angular face.

And his eyes follow Dean’s every movement, observing him silently. Judging whether Dean will run if he makes a move? Judging how far he can go? Dean doesn’t know, he only knows that the scrutiny is too much and he can’t keep his eyes up against it. He lowers his head, staring at Cas’ hips instead. There’s too much fabric over them and the low heat in his stomach urges him to remedy that. His fingers actually twitch to do just that. But he also knows that that isn’t the way he wants this to go. He doesn’t want to be in charge. And Cas has proven himself capable enough at that over the course of the night. It’s still dumb on an epic scale of course, trusting a man he doesn’t know. Who in Dean’s current condition can overpower him with little effort, Dean has no illusions about that. But Cas hasn’t given him reason to distrust him. He hasn’t shared much about his personal life, even less than Dean has, but actions speak louder than words. And so far every action Cas took has benefitted Dean. Dean’s got little doubt that Cas can make this good for him, too.

He has to bite his lips to keep the sounds in that want to escape when he imagines Cas’ fingers on his skin, moving with purpose instead of just holding him up. Would he be demanding immediately, forcing Dean to accommodate him, or would he take it slow, stretching out chaste touches until Dean is begging him for more?

So maybe his stomach is somersaulting more than just a tiny bit. Knowing that whatever option it’s going to be, it’ll be Cas’ decision and Cas’ rules is exhilarating with just that slight tinge of fear that makes it even more delicious.

Cas is still waiting, still observing, though his hands are clenching at his sides, moving forward in little aborted motions, like he is fighting against invisible shackles. Or holding himself back from touching with forceful restraint.

He wants permission, Dean realizes with a start. He won’t take this any further until Dean has given him clear and unequivocal permission to do so. That’s a good sign all by itself. If Cas respects boundaries now, chances are he will do so later. And that’s the last push Dean needs to make clear what he wants. “I want you to touch me. But it’s your call. I’ll follow your lead.”

A small shiver runs through Cas at the words. His hand comes up to Dean’s hair, tangling into it, though he isn’t gripping, mindful of Dean’s injuries. “Are you sure? Because I don’t think I’ll be able to refuse that invitation from you, Dean.” His voice is husky, lower still than it had been all night.

It makes Dean shiver in return because the words and the tone imply that Dean is someone that Cas wants. Maybe wants more than just any stranger who offers him a free pass at touching. “I’m sure,” Dean nods and leans into Cas’ touch to get them going.

But Cas pushes away, not much, but enough that he can tilt up Dean’s face so that they are looking at each other again. “Then tell me, how are you going to make sure I’m not going too far?” he asks.

“Green yellow red,” Dean rattles off even though his mind can’t fathom how a goodnight kiss could turn into something that they need the traffic light system for. But at least it tells him what he’s already suspected. That Cas knows what he’s doing. That he knew what he was doing when he was flirting back just the right way, too. A piece of tension Dean had still been holding onto falls away.

Cas nods satisfied. “Your color?”

“Green.” There’s no question about it. Not with Cas close enough to him that he can feel his body heat burn into his skin. It is a better pain killer than ibuprofen, and again, he has to fight the urge to reach out. To slide his hands under the annoying t-shirt now that they’ve cleared up that they both want to touch. To find out how the strong muscles that held him up feel under his hands. But he doesn’t want to fuck up already when he’s just told Cas that he’s going to do what he says. So Dean just turns his head up to look at Cas and wait where he wants to take this.

Cas is still staring at him, though the gaze is not scrutinizing anymore. There’s something soft and warm behind the steely blue of Cas’ eyes, like he’s looking at Dean and happy about what he sees. He lets go of Dean’s hair and Dean expects a request to move. To lay down or to get up maybe. Instead, Cas moves. He slides to his knees, pushing Dean’s legs apart so he can kneel between them. And that’s pretty much the last thing Dean expected.

But Cas is unperturbed. He cups Dean’s cheek, stroking the skin softly. He brings his other hand up, too, following the same paths on the other side of Dean’s face, trailing carefully around where Dean’s face is busted up, mapping out the unhurt parts more deftly. It’s just sensation, good, but not meant to be more than that. An exploration of a world unknown. Cas lets his thumb trail over Dean’s lips but when Dean lets his mouth go pliant so that Cas can push in, Cas shakes his head. “Not yet.”

Instead he follows the curves of Dean’s chin over his throat to his shoulders and chest. He goes slow, moving with intent but without hurrying to a distant goal. He trails the outline of Dean’s ribs on the side that is unhurt. It is unfamiliar, the reverie and rapt attention with which Cas moves. Dean holds still but it makes him fidgety, uncomfortable like the scrutiny before. He’s got an okay body and he knows it, but he’s also busted up. Right now, he isn’t all that aesthetic to look at. And he has no idea what Cas gets out of this. Why he takes the time to explore every inch of Dean's skin.

Cas hesitates for a moment when he’s done with Dean’s unhurt side. He contemplates the bruise on the other side, brushes his fingers around it. Dean isn’t sure what he is thinking, whether he wants to touch, to press his thumbs into the darkened flesh, to see when it makes Dean cry out. He’s reasonably sure that he would be okay with that. That he’d go along and let Cas test his pain response.

But then Cas leans in and sets a feather-light kiss into the center of the bruise.

Dean isn’t sure what to make of it. It’s way too intimate a gesture for the approximately ten minutes that they’ve known each other. “The bruise is getting a goodnight kiss before me, really, Cas?” he attempts to deflect the unexpected feeling, voice rough and words stilted.

“I’m kissing it better,” Cas states matter-of-factly and for good measure does it again.

It’s tender and loving and everything you’d expect of someone who genuinely cares for you, and nothing you’d expect of what is still basically a one-night-stand. Consequently, the shiver that runs through Dean this time has very little to do with sexual arousal.

In fact, for some reason his eyes start stinging, and maybe today’s events have had an impact on him that went deeper than he thought. “Better be careful with this, Cas,” he warns, though he doesn’t move or try to block Cas’ access to his skin.

Cas’ eyes fly up to his, trying to figure him out, but he doesn’t stop his ministrations. Instead, he takes one of Dean’s hands in his and kisses the bruised knuckles, one at a time. He smiles after each little kiss, a private little smile as if he’s fond of Dean’s knuckles and the fact that he can kiss them better. “Be careful with what?” he asks almost as an afterthought.

But Dean has a hard time answering. Instead, he exhales a shuddering breath while Cas softly strokes his hand, the broken skin already scabbed over. His whole attention is on that part of Dean, broken and torn as it is, and he touches it reverently, gazes at it as if it is something special. Something he holds dear. Suddenly Dean shakes with the effort not to draw his hand out from under Cas’ touch. Whatever Cas is doing here, it’s bordering on too much very quickly. “Don’t be so – nice to me.” It’s not the right word, but it’s the best Dean can do.

Cas laces his fingers through Dean’s, lays their palms together, before he looks up. His voice is steady and even, so different from Dean’s own shaky words. “That’s not your decision to make. Not unless you want to take your invitation back. You know the word for that.”

Dean nods dumbly because, yeah, he does and he doesn’t want to do that. He just wants this intensity to stop and the stinging in his eyes to go away before he turns into a blubbering mess. He uses the hand Cas hasn’t trapped to wipe away a stray tear that has already betrayed his messy emotions. It’s been a fucking long day in a fucking long week in a fucking long life.

Cas follows the gesture with his eyes. There’s no way he hasn’t seen the tear. But it doesn’t seem to disturb him. He holds out his hand for Dean to drop his hand into, and Dean obediently does. “Good,” Cas says quietly. “Good.”

Cas treats that hand with the same devotion as the other. Dean watches it, morbidly fascinated, while he tries to wrap his head around any of this.

“Close your eyes, Dean. Give yourself the chance to really feel for a moment.”

Dean is almost scared when he lets his eyes flutter close. The wetness clings to them and without his sight giving him a distraction, he’s not sure how he’s going to hold up. His hands are gruff and calloused, he doesn’t need to see it to know that a life-time of manual labor has left its marks. And he’s fought with these hands today. Has used them to hit and to punch and to injure. But now Cas is kissing them, so light it almost tickles at first, then with a little more pressure, flicking his tongue out every so often to lick at the pulse point in Dean’s wrist or along a finger. His hands don’t deserve the attention Cas gives them. They aren’t the smooth instruments of a surgeon or pianist, they are the blunt cudgel that hits you over the head.

“Cas, please.” It comes out choked and Dean’s eyes flutter open again because he can’t take it anymore. Each chaste little kiss seems to loosen the hold that Dean has on his emotions, and God knows he bottles up enough of them that no one wants them to tumble out. And Cas is holding his hands, so Dean doesn’t even have a chance to hide his face or wipe away the tears that blur his view.

“When was the last time you let someone do this for you?” Cas asks quietly. “Let someone be nice to you?”

Dean shakes his head. He doesn’t remember. Never, he thinks. Not like this, anyway. “I take care of them usually.” It comes out so rough that he hardly recognizes his own voice.

“Then I’ll be the one to take care of you,” Cas says simply and lets go of his hands to let his touch wander up Dean’s arm. There are more bruises there, places where Dean got grabbed, most likely, and Cas stretches up so that he can kiss each one of them.

“You’ll break me apart.” It’s not what Dean had planned to say. That was something much wittier. But it’s the truth anyway.

“Then I’ll put you back together,” Cas replies.

There’s another shudder running through Dean at the promise. Breaking him apart and remaking him. It’s a promise of more than one night and a promise of more than sex. He sees now why they need safe words. But even though he’s shaking, he doesn’t feel like using them. “Okay,” he mumbles and feels like with this one word he’s giving himself over to Cas completely.

“Good, very good,” Cas praises and rewards Dean by letting his hands wander back up towards his face, and oh yes, there was something about a goodnight kiss, right? “I very much want to take care of you, Dean. To be good to you where you aren’t good to yourself.”

He doesn’t give Dean a chance to protest that statement, instead stretches up to place his lips over Dean’s. It’s slow, gentle, the hand on the back of Dean’s head holding him in place with the barest touch. He can feel it melting his last walls, crumbling what was left of his will to hold the tears at bay. They fall silently, coloring the kiss salty. And fuck, this is not what he signed up for. Or maybe it is, because he leans closer, his hands fisting into Cas’ shirt to have something to hold onto. And if he had the choice to hold onto anything else, the other man would still be what he chooses.

“You’re a good man, Dean,” Cas mumbles against his lips. “You deserve everything good in the world.”

Dean wants to shake his head against the words, flees into a litany of ‘he doesn’t know me’ in his head, because it feels so good, so fucking good to have someone care for him and be gentle with him and not expect him to be on top of things. Quite literally not expect him to be on top. But it can’t be. It never is, and he definitely doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve the kindness of this stranger, who is now leaning his forehead against Dean’s, careful, very careful, so as to not aggravate the stitches.

“Don’t fight, Dean. Just let it happen. Let me take care of you. Let me love you. At least this one night.”

It’s not fair and it should be forbidden, using the l-word and sounding sincere enough to mean it. Dean doesn’t use that word. Not ever. Not about himself anyway. But now it makes his heart ache for something that he didn’t know he was missing. Something that Cas had pointed to as if he’s got a compass pointing straight to Dean’s heart.

Dean reaches then, mouths at Cas, asks wordlessly for something, for anything, for a connection that he hadn’t known he was craving, and Cas obliges, changing their angles again so that their mouths slot together. This time, he isn’t hesitant and slow. This time he pushes into Dean’s mouth, not so much sharing his warmth but covering Dean with it. Covering him until he is protected and safe and loved.

Dean lets himself sink into the feeling, Cas’ warmth steadily crowding out everything else. Crowding out the knowledge that this is not real, can’t be real, because people don’t catch Dean when he falls. Crowding out the knowledge that even if there was someone to catch him, it wouldn’t be Cas. Cas is out of his league and he knows it. He’s never answered what he does for a living or whether he’s single. He cares for Dean, tonight, yes, but he’s not ready to share his life with him. Not even with his words.

But right now, it doesn’t matter. Right now, Dean can be selfish and hold on to Cas while he lets go of everything else. Right now, he sags into Cas’ arms because holding himself upright is too hard. Cas quite literally catches him, somehow managing to get up from his knees without stumbling and lowering the both of them down on the bed without breaking the kiss for more than a few seconds. Cas is covering as much of Dean as he can with his body without putting weight and strain on him, his warmth a presence that demands attention everywhere along Dean’s limbs. The tears are back in Dean’s eyes when he clutches at Cas, at the man himself not just at the fabric of his shirt this time. He draws him down, holds him close, overstepping his bounds, he’s sure, but he can’t help himself, he clings with all his might and Cas lets him.

“You’re safe now, Dean, you’re safe,” Cas murmurs against Dean’s lips and Dean nods, because yes, he feels safe buried under Cas’ body.

It doesn’t stop the tears from flowing but Cas just kisses him again, focusing his attention to be on him. Dean kisses back with all he’s got until his body starts reacting on its own, his back curving up to meet Cas’ skin, his legs trying to find better purchase on the sheets to slide between Cas’. It’s only when his hands find their way under Cas’ waistband that Cas stops him.

“Don’t.”

Dean’s heart sinks but he lets his hands fall away from Cas’ sides.

“Not because I don’t want to. But because you can’t. You’re hurt, remember?”

Of course he remembers. But still. “Let me do something for you at least, Cas. Please. I can be good for you,” Dean begs. Because Cas is out of his league but maybe, if he makes this good for Cas, then he can have something anyway. Not everything he wants, most likely, but he’d be okay with something. Maybe Cas will take back the statement about one night only. Because Dean liked it much better when they were talking first date. Before Dean turned into a frikking crying mess.

“Shhh,” Cas draws a calming hand through Dean’s hair, petting the unruly strands before settling on keeping the hand at the back of Dean’s neck.

“Please, Cas,” Dean asks again, “please. You’ve done so much, let me do something for you.”

“You are doing everything already. You’re letting me be good to you. That’s enough, Dean.”

It’s not. He knows that it’s not, but there isn’t anything he can do about it, so he just buries into Cas’ shoulder. Cas holds him close, rubbing circles into Dean’s neck and back and for the first time Dean consciously notices that he’s not only crying, he’s trembling. What a mess he’s making of this.

“Please, Cas,” he tries one final time, “I don’t even think I have a concuss...”

This time, Cas doesn’t even let him finish the sentence. He cups Dean’s chin and forces his face up until he’s looking at him. “No. I won’t hurt you, Dean. You’ve been hurt enough. Today, and in your life, I think. Don’t try to make me.”

“But…” It comes out before he’s had the time to think about it and he snaps his mouth shut. He can find another approach. Direct opposition is not it. Not when he’s supposed to be good.

But Cas is already alert, having sensed Dean’s shift in mood. “But?” he prompts.

“Gotta offer you something,” Dean provides quietly. “Ain’t got nothing else.”

“Why would you think you have to do that?” Cas asks with a frown.

“Want to make you stick around,” Dean admits and lowers his eyes away from Cas. It’s bad enough to say it, he doesn’t want to see the rejection.

Cas laughs softly. “Oh Dean.”

Dean doesn’t know what that means. It doesn’t sound like a cruel laugh, but it’s still laughing at his expense. And Dean’s been crying like a baby for the past hour and he’s pretty sure that’s no one’s way to get their rocks off. Which was what this was supposed to be about.

“Look at me, Dean,” there’s authority back in Cas’ voice, but there’s also still a quiver of laughter. “You had me at the introductions. I was very inappropriately plotting how to get your number even then.”

“But then you changed your mind. You said just this one night,” Dean answers dumbfounded because he’s heard that loud and clear.

“Dean, I said _at least_ this one night. I wasn’t sure – you seemed baffled every time a brought up even a hint of the future. I wasn’t sure you wanted more than this night.”

“Oh.” This renders Dean speechless for a moment. Then he asks, “What _do_ you do for a living?”

Cas looks confused for a second, then he smiles. “It’s terribly boring I fear. I’m an attorney in my brother’s law firm. Not the big criminal stuff, either. More like insurance fraud.”

“And – do you have someone?”

This one takes a moment longer before Cas answers. “I have friends to play with. I don’t have a special someone, no. You?”

“I don’t – this, I don’t do it very often. Never really found a safe space for myself. And there’s enough possibilities for a quick night when you work at a bar. So that’s the easier route.” Dean swallows hard. “But with you I’d like to – I promise I’m not always such a mess. I can be better.”

Cas shakes his head, incredulous look on his face. “Dean, you realize that you did exactly what I wanted, right?”

“What?”

“There was so much pain piled up in here,” Cas softly lays a hand on Dean’s chest over his heart. “I saw it even back in the alley, that you were hurting so much deeper than just the fight.”

“You led me into it.” Maybe it’s stating the obvious, but it baffles Dean to no end. Why Cas would do something like that for him. _How_ he managed to get past all of Dean’s usual defenses with no more than a few words and touches.

“I wasn’t sure it was going to work. We don’t know each other well enough for me to know exactly where to prod. And if you had kept your walls up, I wouldn’t have kept poking. But Dean, you responded so beautifully. You are amazing.”

Mental faculties mostly restored also means that Dean can feel how he blushes to the roots of his hair. “You _wanted_ me to fall apart?”

“I wanted to put you back together. I wanted you to feel better.”

And Dean does, in a way. He feels empty somehow, like the tears took away some of the ballast inside him but there is nothing to fill up the new space. It’s disconcerting, so he turns away and to the nightstand to get the water and the pain killers. He winces when he turns a little too abruptly. Cas had pushed the pain into the background, but now it comes back.

“I’m sorry if I went too far,” Cas says quietly, suddenly much more the guy with the bees than the guy in charge. “My friends tell me that my social skills are underwhelming. I tend to do what I feel is right and forget social norms. It’s one reason why I like – this,” he admits. “It’s very clear what is wanted and what isn’t. Usually, anyway.”

“Cas,” Dean lays back in bed, propped up against the pillows. “Stop apologizing. Everything you did was wanted. Just – you caught me off guard. I’m not used to any of this.”

“Then tell me how you feel now,” Cas asks.

Dean knows it’s a question he’s supposed to answer. That it’s important to communicate. He grimaces because usually that means he draws a complete blank. It kind of does right now, too. He guesses he could just say he’s good. He already fell apart, so there isn’t anywhere to drop really. Apart from into an abyss of self-hate. Which happens sometimes. So maybe not such a good idea, then.

“Dean?” Fingers are wrapping around his, gentle and strong at the same time, grounding him in the moment where he was drifting away.

Surprisingly, it helps focusing his thoughts into words. “Empty. Floating, but not like on endorphins. More like, unreal. And my head and my ribs hurt.”

Cas’ eyes flicker up to Dean’s. They stay there for a long moment, like Cas is weighing carefully what he wants to say. “I’m real, Dean,” is what he finally settles on. “This is real.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were a voice in my head,” Dean deflects.

“I’ll stay here until you can accept me as real,” Cas insists stubbornly.

“That might be a frikking long time,” Dean says and admits more with that than he wants to say.

“We’ll start slow,” Cas answers. “Here, lean back into me.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. I’m not leaving you alone until you’re settled.”

The determination in his voice leaves no room for argument, so Dean accepts it and scoots over while Cas sets his alarm and turns off the light. Then he draws Dean in, until Dean’s back is flush against his chest. It’s been years since Dean’s been the little spoon.

“Good,” Cas praises and gives him a kiss on the neck as if he knows that relaxing into this costs effort for Dean. “I like you a lot, Dean. Thank you for letting me do this.”

“I like you, too, Cas,” Dean mumbles because it is the truth. Suddenly, he’s very tired.

“Sleep, Dean. I’ll wake you in two hours.”

“Don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do,” Cas chuckles softly. “I promised.”

“What about the morning? Will you be there in the morning?” It’s a stupid question, this is Cas’ house, of course he’s going to be there in the morning. But Dean’s so tired and he thinks Cas can figure out what the question means.

“Yes, Dean. I’ll be there.”

And that’s good. That’s very good. Dean lets himself sink into Cas’ warmth. It seeps into him, slowly but steadily, filling the niches and crevices that the tears have left. Embedding itself into him. He knows it then, in this exact moment, that this indeed isn’t a one night thing. That this is just the beginning.


End file.
